


Nerve Tonic

by glorious_spoon



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 06:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10183067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Faraday has a nightmare, and Vasquez distracts him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://mag7-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/1188.html?thread=151460#cmt151460) on the kinkmeme, because it's been a while since I've done a quick, porny one-shot.

It’s not the first time that Vasquez has been roused from a sound sleep by the sound of screaming, but he wasn’t expecting it here. Still, reflexes die hard, and he’s on his feet, gun in hand, before his brain emerges from the fog of sleep.

There is no threat. The room is empty, moonlight and a hot dry breeze streaming in through the open window. On the narrow straw tick bed, Faraday is writhing, big fists clenched in the bedclothes, face a rictus of fear. Still asleep, for all he looks like he’s being possessed, or possibly boiled alive. Sounds like it, too.

Vasquez sighs, sets down his gun, and circles the bed until he can prod at the American— cautiously, and from a safe distance. Faraday is not a small man, and he has the same instinct for violence as Vasquez himself. “ _Oye, güero._ Wake up.”

When Faraday jerks awake, though, he doesn’t go for his gun. He flinches back, eyes wide and panicked in the thin light, body curling out of the way as though he’s expecting a blade to drop down out of thin air. It takes several moments for sense to come back into his face, for him to flop back on the thin pillow, push the heels of his palms into his eyes, and mutter, “Fuck.”

“Nightmare,” Vasquez observes.

“What’s it to you?” Faraday mutters, voice low and raspy. “And what the hell are you doing up?”

“I didn’t want to be accidentally strangled by some _loco gringo_ having a bad dream.”

Faraday lets out a breath of something that isn’t quite laughter. “Trust me, Vasquez, if I strangle you it won’t be an accident. Get back in the bed.”

Vasquez eyes him for a moment, then obeys. Faraday rolls over to make room for him; it’s not really a wide enough bed for two big men. Vasquez has slept in significantly worse conditions, and it’s sure as hell better than flipping a coin to see who’ll sleep on the floor— especially since Faraday would cheat— but now, with his nerves still twitchy, it seems tiny, the bump of their elbows and the heat of another body oppressive.

“What do you dream of?” he asks, after a moment. He’s not really sure why. Faraday isn’t a man who’d answer a question like that, at least not without a lot more whiskey than he’s had. He’s not even sure why he wants to know. Blood and death and the smell of cordite; what else do men like them dream of?

Faraday is staring up at the ceiling, making no pretense of trying to sleep. “None of your damn business, that’s what.”

“I remember the Gatling,” Vasquez offers. “Sometimes. Other things too. If you—”

“Oh for the love of Christ,” Faraday mutters, and then he’s moving suddenly, rolling into Vasquez’s space, crowding him close enough to share breath. His hands are as hot as brands, skittering up Vasquez’s arms until he wonders if the man is actually going to try and strangle him right here and now. He doesn’t pull away, though. Curious, maybe, or hypnotized by the intent expression on Faraday’s shadowed face, so very different from the lazy gambler’s smile he wears in the daytime when other people are watching.

“What—” he begins, and then he has to stop talking because Faraday is kissing him.

It’s rough, whiskey-flavored and lacking in finesse, over almost before he realizes it’s happening. Faraday pulls back and stares at him like he’s surprised himself, like he’s expecting to get punched. Like maybe he’s hoping for it.

Instead, Vasquez leans up and kisses him back. Gently, this time, tilting to slot their mouths together, licking the taste of bourbon from his tongue. Faraday makes a low noise in the back of his throat that sends a line of heat prickling down into the pit of Vasquez’s belly, then pulls back.

“What the hell are we doing?”

“You want to talk now?” Vasquez asks, reaching between them to start undoing the buttons of Faraday’s shirt. They could do this the other way, rough and impersonal and fully dressed, but that isn’t what he wants. Isn’t what either of them needs, he thinks. It’s better to touch.

Sure enough, Faraday huffs out a laugh. “No.”

“Good. Then stop talking.” He slides the shirt off of Faraday’s wide shoulders, trails his fingers over the slope of muscle, the fading bullet scars. Faraday is holding himself very still, breathing shallowly, but he doesn’t try to pull away. When Vasquez reaches down to cup him through his pants, he jerks into the touch, curses softly under his breath. Vasquez chuckles quietly and kisses him again. “ _Cálmate_.”

“That better not be another one of your Mexican insults.”

“Spanish, _güero_. Now shut up.”

Faraday starts to open his mouth, so Vasquez undoes the fastenings of his pants and shoves his hand inside, gets a firm grip on his cock and gives it a stroke. Whatever Faraday was about to say disappears into a harsh gasp, and he drops his head to Vasquez’s shoulder, hands gripping his shoulders tight enough to bruise.

_“¿Bueno?”_

“I don’t fucking know what that means,” Faraday gasps against his shoulder, but he’s hard as a rock, throbbing in Vasquez’s grip, breath coming unsteady, so it’s probably just fine.

“You want me to touch you?”

After a long moment with no answer, he starts to pull his hand away. A rough palm grips his wrist, dragging him back, and he presses his face to Faraday’s bare throat to hide his smile.

“ _Yes_ , you bastard,” Faraday says, breath hot in his ear. He pulls Vasquez up for another kiss, and then his hand is moving downward, deftly undoing the fastenings on his pants and shoving them down. He squirms out of his own pants, and then they’re skin to skin, the hot length of his cock, slick with precome, sliding against Vasquez’s.

Faraday is cursing under his breath, shoving himself against Vasquez; it’s graceless rutting, but it all feels damn good, especially when he gets a hand down between them to wrap around both their cocks, his broad palm and long, clever card-sharp fingers just on the sweet side of painful. Vasquez lets out a hissing breath through his teeth and Faraday chuckles breathlessly, sounding suddenly awful goddamn smug for a man who was just begging to be touched not a minute ago.

“You like that, do you?”

“ _Madre de dios,_ stop talking.”

“I ain’t never done this before, but it’s good, isn’t it?” A ragged breath. “It’s really fucking good.”

“ _Si, güero_ ,” Vasquez murmurs against the pulse point at Faraday’s neck, opening his mouth to taste the salt of his skin. Faraday groans, and his hips stutter, and then he’s coming hot and slick over both of them.

“Jesus Christ, Vasquez,” he whispers, sounding stunned, and it’s the sound of his own name, as much as anything, that sends him over the edge an instant later. He collapses against Faraday, panting, and is vaguely surprised when the other man doesn’t immediately shove him away.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Faraday murmurs after a moment. He still sounds stunned, like a man who’s seen the face of God. Then he laughs suddenly, sounding more like himself. “That’s one hell of a nerve tonic, anyway. You got a handkerchief?”

“In my bags,” Vasquez says, in a tone he hopes indicates that he has no plans of moving. Faraday snorts and shifts against him, rummaging through his pockets until he comes up with a square of cloth, which he uses to roughly clean both of them off. He tugs his pants up, and Vasquez does the same.

There’s a long, awkward silence, and then Faraday clears his throat and says, “Thank you.”

“Not exactly a hardship,” Vasquez retorts, amused.

“Not for that. I mean, for that, yeah, but…” In the darkness, he can see Faraday’s smile, rueful and self-deprecating. “For giving a damn.”

There’s really nothing he can say to that, so he just nods, lifts his arm slightly. After a moment, Faraday tucks himself in closer, boneless and warm against him.

“Don’t get any funny ideas while I’m sleepin’,” he mumbles. Vasquez runs his free hand up the line of his back and doesn’t answer.

It only takes a few minutes for Faraday’s body to relax into sleep.


End file.
